


Crowley's Reflections on Capitalism

by Earthspark



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Autistic Aziraphale (Good Omens), Christmas, Holidays, M/M, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 10:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21426736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earthspark/pseuds/Earthspark
Summary: Crowley has a hard time explaining to Aziraphale that donation collecting during the holiday season is not always what it seems.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 101





	Crowley's Reflections on Capitalism

Crowley and Aziraphale stepped outside Aziraphale’s bookshop (after several days inside, For Reasons) and were greeted by crisp air and the scent of pine. “Ugh, charity season,” Crowley said, wrinkling up his nose and his forehead in a way which indicated great distaste. “Changed my mind, Angel, let’s order in.”

“But don’t you think it’s all rather wonderful, Crowley? It’s the one time of the year that humans remember it is more blessed to give than to receive.” Aziraphale clasped his hands together in beatific satisfaction.

Crowley sighed. He didn’t want to break his angel’s heart, but he did need to gently introduce the concept of reality. “Let’s go for a walk,” was all he said, guiding Aziraphale by the shoulder toward the motley collection of shops nearby. He stopped them near the center of their little corner of commercialism and sprawled onto a park bench that had decided to be available. “I want you to feel for the love in this area. Love of one human for another, especially the pure and unconditional whatnot you’d think would be involved with charity.”

Aziraphale glanced quizzically at Crowley but proceeded to close his eyes and do as he asked. All around them shoppers hustled in warm holiday attire, and the bells of different shops rang as the customers came and went, sending scraps of tinned carols wafting into the open air. Nothing held Crowley’s interest but Aziraphale. Behind his dark glasses his face betrayed an unguarded compassion. He saw the emotions crossing Aziraphale’s face like gathering storm clouds; openness, trust, and hope turning gradually to bewilderment and disappointment. He opened his eyes slowly, as if afraid of what he might see. But nothing on the surface looked out of the ordinary. Aziraphale turned his face to Crowley as if to the sun on a freezing day. “Why is there so little love?” he asked slowly. “I can see that some people are giving” -a corner Santa thanked a well-dressed woman for her donation- “but their emotions are not involved.”

Crowley slunk a little deeper into his seat. “Oh, they’re involved, Angel. Emotions are involved on all sides. They’re just more on my side of things,” he murmured, watching a dark-haired shop girl in a store apron be beset by customers. Aziraphale followed his gaze. They both sharpened their vision and hearing with a thought, so as not to be required to move closer. They listened to a few transactions, with ears and with angelic and demonic perceptions. They listened to that girl, and to the cashiers in the stores on either side of her. The energies they read were all very much the same. The customers grew more impatient and less compassionate with every request to give to charity. Customers were besieged with requests at nearly every shop. They felt loving compassion at first, but it rapidly transformed into a kind of boredom and disinterest. On the other side of the counter, Crowley especially could feel the miasma of exhaustion and despair rising from the workers as they whipped their way through transactions, eking out a donation here and there. It was a special torment for the neurodivergent, those who had social anxiety, and those service workers who had cultural reasons for not looking people in the eye. Cashiers were expected to remember who previously gave so as to not upset the customers, but also to ask every person so as not to upset their overlords. _Overlords, bosses, owners, whatever_, thought Crowley. _Peasants are still peasants, whether you style them serfs or cashiers. Their upward mobility remains about the same._ The girl took off her apron to escape for a break, the forced smile sliding from her face. The hunted look began to fade from her eyes. She paused to count her money before edging out the door and down the street to the nearest fast food establishment.

  
Aziraphale broke the silence. “Surely it’s at least worth it to the people the donations help…” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

“Angel, at what they pay the cashiers, some of them are who the donations help. Even when they don’t currently need help, other workers have bad memories of times without food or shelter. The humans call that triggering now, when someone forces them to run face-first into pain. It’s a beautiful torture system. Mammon outdid himself,” Crowley mumbled bitterly, adjusting his coat with a jerk.

  
“No…What?! No…Crowley, you can’t possibly say that the season of giving was created by the demon of greed!” Aziraphale unconsciously flapped his hands in distress at the thought.

Crowley caught at one hand and stroked it soothingly. “Hey. Angel. Look at me.”

  
Aziraphale looked at Crowley with tears threatening in his eyes. He gave Crowley his other hand just in case, shifting on the bench to be more comfortable.  


Long fingers gently massaged Aziraphale’s hands as Crowley thought for a moment about how to put this. Finally, he said, “You said it yourself just now. ‘The season of giving.’ Once you restrict the idea of giving to a tiny piece of a year, a month really, the other eleven are yours to do with as you like.” He snarled as he said, “Open season for capitalism. Make as much money as you like, make governmental decisions that starve people and throw them out of their homes, and then drop a pittance to help those people AND FEEL GOOD ABOUT YOURSELF!” he roared, startling passersby. “Why do you think the most common feeling around here is self-satisfaction? Because charity writ small is considered a virtue,” he enunciated sarcastically, with a broad, sweeping gesture. “You’re a bloody saint. But charity writ large- extravagance! Conservatives in every damned country will donate to the homeless because it makes them look good, write it off on their taxes, because they are cheap bastards, and then go evict more families with the way they vote. THAT is why I cannot stand the holidays. It’s the hypocrisy, Angel. I mean, choose a side. Be good or evil but be genuinely something! Of course, hypocrites belong to Below, but couldn’t they get there a more interesting way?”  


Aziraphale smiled at Crowley’s lament at the lack of flair in hell. Then he frowned. “So how are humans to help each other?” he asked. “The right way, I mean.” Crowley, daringly, ran a hand through Aziraphale’s curls. Aziraphale closed his eyes to enjoy it. “Every day,” Crowley began. “Not a season. No separate holiday turkey or shoebox of necessities or toy from a tree. Every day the humans need to see that they owe each other some measure of basic humanity. They can volunteer more than once a year. Vote for officials who won’t cut food assistance. Choose, all year, to make sure children are fed and housed and have toys and an education and that their mums have childcare for them. They aren’t just children one month a year. And if the humans want to give to charities, it’s not like they don’t have an online presence 365 days a year. Research where the money goes and send it there, no dehumanization of shop workers required.”

  
Aziraphale had opened his eyes partway through this rant, unable to miss seeing Crowley’s passion. He put a soft hand against Crowley’s face, just brushing the snake tattoo. “Oh, Crowley,” the angel said with love, “You would make such a good human.” Crowley tried to jerk away with an affronted huff, but Aziraphale was having none of it. “Care to walk with me while I bless a few peasants?” Crowley put his arm around Aziraphale and stood up in answer, and they soon disappeared into the crowd of shoppers.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't help it. It was write this fic or shank someone at my retail job, and I went with the option that carried less jail time.


End file.
